Four Days
by V. Laike
Summary: Charlie swallowed.  Apparently he, too, could put the proverbial two and two together.  “David,” he said, looking the agent in the eye, “go identify the body.  Please.”  Warning: exceeds source material's rating, or it did until 'Thirteen' aired.
1. Four Days

Per my profile page, this story includes a warning.

Warning: This story contains the most gore I've ever put into a posted story. My lovely beta Izhilzha has declared it to exceed the rating of the show itself. Then "Thirteen" aired. That ep pretty much makes this look like a tea party. Regardless, please be aware of this and proceed at your own discretion.

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made. Many thanks to Heuton, Falacci, et al for the source material. Additional author's notes can be found at the end of the piece.

* * *

Four Days

by

V. Laike

Four days.

It had been four days since her team leader had walked into that narrow alleyway to retrieve the whereabouts of his brother.

Four days since her team leader had vanished, his disappearance followed shortly by an automated phone call describing the location of Charles Eppes.

Four days since David Sinclair and Colby Granger had found Charlie locked in an abandoned garage, bound and blindfolded, but otherwise unharmed.

Four days since any of them had slept, pursuing every lead, following Charlie's every algorithmic clue.

Four days.

She knew the statistics. She knew the odds. In fact, this was one unfortunate piece of mathematical data that Charlie had learned from the FBI and not the other way around.

If they were wrong, if this didn't pan out, Don Eppes would likely be lost to them forever.

Being wrong was not an option.

* * *

Charlie had flatly refused to go home upon his release from the hospital. His father was at an out-of-town convention and unreachable; the best they could do was leave messages at the front desk of the remote Washington State lodge where Alan Eppes was staying. This was not a situation the specifics of which one wanted to leave in a message. As they awaited Alan's return call, Megan Reeves was prepared to send an agent to escort Charlie home, or to entrust him to Amita Ramanujan and Larry Fleinhardt's care, but the mathematician argued vehemently. 

"I'm not going anywhere but to the FBI office. There are too many scenarios to run, too many probabilistic—"

"Mr. Eppes, you've been through quite an ordeal," the attending doctor said. "I'm sure these agents here will agree that you need to rest for the next couple of days, to—"

"Rest?" Charlie said sarcastically, his tone edged with an intense anger. "You expect me to go home and take a nap while my brother—my federal agent FBI brother—is in the hands of some two-bit low-life Asian gangbangers who are—who are doing—" Charlie swallowed. "—who are doing God knows what to him right now?"

"Wait a minute, Charlie." Colby held up a hand to slow Charlie down. "How do you know they were Asian? Did you see them when they snatched you?"

Charlie shook his head. "No. They came up behind me and threw a bag over my head. But I heard them talking. I don't know if it was Chinese or Vietnamese or what, but it was definitely an Asian dialect."

"Well, that's a start," said David. "Don and I were working a Japanese weapons ring a few weeks back." He threw a scowl in Colby's direction, and Megan knew David was referring to the five weeks when the core team consisted of only Don and himself. She had been on leave, and Colby had been in lock-up. She hadn't had a chance to talk to Don about that time period; she prayed silently that she would get that chance soon.

Charlie leapt at this information as he slid off the ER exam table. "Great. If you can give me the information you collected during the case, I can start running—"

Megan reached out and grabbed his arm before he could pull away from them. "Charlie, don't you think you should listen to the doctor? This is a lot for you to deal with. Maybe you should go home for the day and—"

"I will not go home!" Charlie spun around, facing off with the three agents. "I helped find you, Megan, and I helped find Colby. I'll be damned if I don't help find my own brother!"

When they arrived at the FBI office, Megan sent one of the junior agents to the corner deli to get Charlie a sandwich.


	2. Day One

On Day One, the GPS signal from Don's cell phone had led the team to the Kobe Club, a karaoke bar in Little Tokyo. Yakuza territory, Megan knew, and her sense of dread deepened. These were not amateurs they were dealing with; this was the Japanese mafia. Upon entering the bar, they immediately found what Megan recognized as Don's black jacket, the one he had been wearing when he'd entered that alley, hanging among the coats on the rack lining the wall. Without producing badges or weapons, she and David entered, lifted the jacket without fuss or preamble, and left the building. Colby, waiting just inside the door, took note as the bartender watched Megan and David and picked up a phone as the agents left. Granger then called in a surveillance team to watch the bar.

With gloved hands, Megan searched the jacket for clues before bagging it as evidence. She found nothing but Don's cell phone and a Polaroid that made her blood run cold: Don, gagged and shirtless, hands and bare feet bound, hanging from a hook in what appeared to be a meat locker. His abdomen was a deep mottled red-purple, blood trailed from under the gag, and his head hung limply, his chin resting on his chest.

"Charlie does not see this picture," Megan said, struggling to contain her fear, anger, and sorrow. "We give him the information, but he does not see this picture. Got that?"

David and Colby nodded their grim agreement. Colby bent down and picked up a chunk of asphalt, heaving it with all his strength at a metal dumpster. The resounding clang failed to match the venom in his expletive.


	3. Day Two

By Day Two, Charlie had factored the new data into his equations or expressions or algorithms or whatever it was he was developing. No longer figuring in the less organized street gangs, their search shifted to meat packing locations that would be accessible—possibly run by—the Japanese Yakuza. Megan had watched Charlie's complexion grow a shade paler as she gave him the new information, but he had not asked to see the photo. Not yet, anyway. Megan and Colby offered experienced insight when necessary, knowing that Charlie's search grids would maximize the efficiency of their efforts.

The mathematician had been scribbling away on the whiteboard, bouncing ideas off the other members of his own "team," Amita and Larry, when the call from LAPD came in. David entered the war room, breathless with urgency. Megan's senses immediately went on alert.

"I just received a call from Gary Walker." David's rich timbre was laced with anxiety. "LAPD just located a body in Compton. They found Don's badge and ID on it."

Megan watched Charlie's animated gestures go still. "Don?" The name was barely a whisper. Then his eyes desperately returned to the scrawls on the board. "But that makes no sense. Compton? Why would the Yakuza take Don there? Why would—"

David shook his head as he cut across the frantic mathematician. "They don't know. They can't identify the body as it is. They'll have to run DNA tests." David did not elaborate, but Megan knew what that meant. The body was missing its fingers and possibly its toes, and the face was mutilated beyond recognition—if it had a head at all.

Charlie swallowed. Apparently he, too, could put the proverbial two and two together. "David," he said, looking the agent in the eye and rubbing his own lower left arm with his right hand, "go identify the body. Please."

Megan noted the momentary confusion on David's face, confusion that turned to understanding and a small nod. Colby popped out of his chair to accompany his partner. "What? How can you identify the body? Walker just said they'd need to run DNA."

"Don was shot in the arm a few years back," David said. "During a bank robbery case, before you or Megan transferred in."

"His left forearm," said Charlie as he continued to rub his arm. "It was one of the first cases I ever helped him with."

"The Charm School Boys," Larry said softly, and Amita rose from her chair and approached Charlie from behind, gently sliding her arms under his and resting her head on the back of his shoulder.

"He—he still has the scar," Charlie said quietly, looking toward the whiteboard, ready to get back to his numbers.

Colby slapped David on the arm. "So what are we waiting for? Let's go."

As the partners dashed off, Megan surreptitiously reached for Larry's hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze as Megan closed her eyes in brief hope for her friend's safety.


	4. Day Three

Day Three had brought little more than a shortage of coffee and a flaring of tempers. Megan knew that everyone was working on little sleep and that time was slipping away. The one bright spot had been that the body in the morgue had not born the telltale scar on the left arm. When he'd received the news, Charlie's legs had nearly buckled in relief, and he'd hidden his eyes behind his hand as he sank into a chair, trying to hide the tears of relief Megan knew were forming there.

Her team knew, as she did, that the longer a person remained missing, the more unlikely it became that he would be found alive. _If we find him at all_, a tiny voice in her mind added. Still, as long as they had not found his body, Megan had to keep her team positive. She had to remind herself that until Don was found, this was a missing persons case, not a homicide. But she really wished her team leader were there to back up these sentiments.

Megan paused in the doorway of the war room, observing Charlie before offering him the sandwich and coffee someone had brought in from the café across the street. The consultant sat at the table staring at the map projected on the screen. Try as he might, Megan knew, he could not reconcile the information LAPD was providing with the set covering deployment or pursuit curve or terrain guarding algorithm or game theory or whatever else he was trying. She approached him quietly and slid the sandwich container in front of him.

"Why?" His eyes were full of pain and doubt as he looked at her.

"Because you need to eat," she replied.

He shook his head. "No, I mean why didn't they do anything to me? They snatched me, hid me, then let you find me? That's not how these things usually work, is it?"

"Charlie," Megan said softly as she took a seat next to him, "they didn't 'let' us find you. There was a price."

Charlie nodded almost imperceptibly. "Don?"

Megan placed a hand on his arm. "Don."

"This has to be related to the weapons case he and David were working when . . ." Charlie's voice trailed off. He seemingly did not want to put into words the time frame during which Don and David had been on their own. "I just can't figure out how." He swallowed. "Don didn't ask me to do any consulting, you know. And I was enjoying getting back to . . . life."

Megan tightened her grip gently. "He doesn't begrudge you that. I'm sure he didn't ask you to consult because he wanted you to get back to teaching. He wanted to distance you from the situation and from the work."

"It messed him up, you know? Confused him, what happened with Colby. Messed with his confidence. But he's really smart. His instincts are good. Excellent, in fact."

"And he was right. About Colby, and about this." Megan opened the food container and turned it toward Charlie, though she refrained from actually putting the sandwich in his hand. "He knows you found me, he knows you found Colby, and he knows you'll find him."

Charlie started to push the box away.

"But you can't do that unless you're thinking clearly, and to do that, you need to eat." She pushed the food toward him more firmly, and he nodded, picking up the sandwich and chewing a bite listlessly.

Without warning, David and Colby came rushing into the room.

"Charlie," David said excitedly as he thrust a file toward the mathematician, "I think we just found the missing data you've been looking for."

Charlie snatched the file and opened it quickly, scanning the pages and entering the new information into his laptop.

"LAPD just raided an auto body shop and found a small cache of weapons. Our own Organized Crime Unit has suspected this place of being a front for Yakuza activity and traced the weapons back to a shipment that was stolen from a rival gang based out of Compton six months ago."

Megan watched as Charlie's fingers flew across the keyboard. "This is more like it," he muttered, and dots of varying colors began popping up on the screen. "The red dots indicate meat packing facilities that have the strongest probability of being connected to Yakuza activity, based on location and chain of ownership." More dots appeared. "The yellow dots indicate locations where Japanese gangs and black gangs have tangled over various things—territory, drugs, retribution—"

"Guns," Colby interjected.

"—guns, whatever." Charlie continued to type. "The blue dots represent the new information, auto body shops suspected of being fronts for any type of organized crime. And . . ." Charlie punched the _return_ key firmly. "The green dots show where each of these elements intersect with known Yakuza activity."

David frowned at the screen. "We don't have enough manpower to put raids together to cover all that territory."

"Which is why," Charlie said, typing quickly again, "I'm running probabilities based on the information gathered by the local canvases." Several green dots dropped off the map. "So my best estimate . . ."

Megan clasped her hands together and nervously rested them on top of her head while she waited for Charlie to work his magic.

"There's an 89.32 percent probability that Don is being held here." Charlie enlarged a section of the map.

"That's an auto shop just down the street from the Kobe Club," David said.

"Damn it," Colby said. "We were three blocks from there three days ago!"

But Megan had no time for self-recrimination. "Let's go, people! Let's move! We roll in five!" As David and Colby left quickly to make preparations, Megan leaned down and gave Charlie a quick kiss on the cheek. "I knew you could do it, Charlie. More importantly, Don knew you could do it."


	5. Day Four

The early hours of Day Four found Megan and her teammates staking out an auto shop three blocks from the karaoke bar. As they watched the infrared surveillance from the back of the tactical operations van, Megan counted a dozen heat signatures moving freely through the shop. Judging by the noise of buzz saws and welding torches, this was a chop shop with a major order to fill. The plan was to go in fast and go in hard before the gangsters had the chance to turn the shop into a war zone.

One infrared signature, cooler than the rest, remained stationary in the back quarter of the shop. Megan could only assume that this solitary signature was Don. She told herself that it was cooler because he had been kept in a cold meat locker, not because his body was no longer generating heat. David and Colby worried about the same thing, Megan could tell; they were getting frustrated and impatient waiting for her to give the go-ahead. Still, she wanted to be certain that LAPD, SWAT, and their own FBI backup were in place before she gave the order to execute the raid.

Finally, she heard the last team check in, and none too soon.

"So are we just gonna sit here all night, or are we gonna go get him?" David had been running on angry for weeks now, and the current situation wasn't helping any.

"We've got to play it smart, David, or they get to him first and it's all over." Colby's voice was calmer, but no less determined.

"You think I don't know that?"

"I know you know that, man." Colby clapped David on the back. "He's right, Megan. The longer we wait, the worse the odds get for Don."

Megan confirmed the last check-in. "All right. LAPD SWAT is covering the back, we're going in the front. Pendergrast and Tomaki's team will secure the place while we find Don."

The entire raid took ten minutes. As Megan had feared, the shop equipment created an obstacle course, and the large weapons cache that was being readied for transport provided additional ammunition that could go up with one stray bullet.

Amid the kinetic confusion, Megan, Colby, and David focused on their primary target, the room in the back quarter of the building. The rest of the building was being secured when Megan saw a lone gangster take off in that direction. Following the thug, Megan caught a glimpse of her team leader through the open door, and her heart constricted. She chose to believe that he was unconscious, not a lifeless body they were only minutes too late to save.

Megan went in low, Colby went in high, and David covered the rear. Instinct, reflexes, and adrenaline carried Megan through a scene that became a blur. The gangster took two shots at the Feds, then flipped the gun around and raised it high, hitting Don across the jaw, backhanded, twice with the butt of the pistol. Megan saw Don's head snap back, but his jaw hung loosely, and red oozed down his face.

Megan heard a report from above her head as Colby fired at Don's assailant, catching him at center mass.

Then she heard two more shots as David took out an unseen guard who had taken aim at Colby.

Megan and her teammates eased themselves quickly into the room, sweeping their weapons around what looked like a storage room filled with all sorts of things Megan was sure Colby saw as potential torture devices. She had declared the room clear when a gurgling sound caught her attention. She turned to Don; no longer gagged, he was strapped to a heavy wooden chair, wrists tied tightly to the tops of the chair's arms. Though unconscious, he was alive, gagging and coughing, choking on his own blood. She holstered her gun, trusting her team to cover her, and gently cradled the back of Don's head with one hand and his jaw with the other. His skin was chilled and clammy to her touch, and his forehead was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. She eased his mouth closed and carefully tilted his head forward slightly so the blood from his broken nose and jaw would run out of his mouth rather than down his throat. She felt the warm liquid drip over her hand, but the gagging eased and the shuddering breathing became less labored.

"Don? Don, can you hear me?" Megan called desperately as she tried to rouse her friend. "Don, it's Megan. We're gonna get you out of here." She angled herself behind the chair, where she could more easily support Don's head with a hand to his forehead, reducing the pressure on his jaw as much as possible. From this nearly cheek-to-cheek position, Megan could hear every whispering, rasping, pain-filled breath.

She took a moment to visually assess his other injuries as she heard David relay the information to the medical unit standing by. Though they knew better than to try to move Don, Colby cut his bonds to give him freedom. Leaving the strap around Don's chest to keep him upright in the chair, Granger cut the ropes from Don's wrists and ankles. As he released Don's arms from their bindings, Megan noticed the swelling and bruising of three broken fingers on her team leader's right hand and two on his left. Her jaw tightened. Prolonged torture had been the Yak's agenda. This had not escaped Colby's notice either, as he again surveyed the tools and equipment in the room: batteries, cables, wrenches, crowbars, tire irons, sanders, all manner of caustic chemicals, blowtorches . . .

Don gave another weak, shuddering cough, and a blackened, swollen eye cracked open. "M— Meh—?" He forced the sounds between shallow breaths.

"Yeah, it's me, tough guy. Don't try to talk. We're gonna get you out of here." She rubbed a thumb ever so lightly across his chin, offering comfort, feeling the stubble there from four days without shaving. "I don't know about the scruffy look, Don. It works for the academics, maybe even for Granger here, but I think I prefer you clean shaven."

Don blinked slowly, and to Megan's relief he quirked the tiniest smile. ". . . keemp 'at in min'," he breathed. Then he grew serious. "Cha— Char—"

"Charlie's fine. We found him right where they said we would. He's the one who helped us find you."

Don let out a pained sigh and closed his eyes. "Goo'n," he said. "Knew he wouln."

Megan's muscles started to burn from the awkward position from which she held Don, but that was a small price to pay for finding her friend alive and keeping him that way. Megan called to David, "How long until the medics get in here?"

David snapped his cell phone shut. "As soon as the place is secured. Just a couple more minutes."

"Ge'nd 'em?" Don asked without opening his eyes. "Maj'r shibm'n'. Da'bin knows."

"Yeah, Don, we got 'em," David said as Colby cut the ropes binding Don's ankles. "They're rounding 'em up right now."

Don managed a small nod. "Goo'n."

"Hey," Megan said softly, bending closer to his ear. "I thought I told you not to talk."

Don still had not opened his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"But we do need to know what's wrong," she said. "Can you tell us that? In as few words as possible?"

Another labored breath. "Ribs . . . sum'n wron' . . . kidney punch . . ." He tried to lift his left wrist. "Han's . . ."

"Hey, man. Don't do that," Colby scolded as he carefully repositioned Don's hand on the arm of the chair. "The medics will get you patched up good as new."

Megan took Don's sighing breath as agreement.

"Da'n?" Don asked.

"We haven't been able to get a hold of your father yet," Megan said. "I've left messages for him to call me, but I haven't heard from him."

"Remod'e," Don replied, then gave a weak cough that sent an additional trickle of blood dripping down Megan's hand.

"I know," Megan said, growing frustrated at her friend's lack of cooperation. "Now shut up and let us do the work."

Don did not reply, and Megan knew that he'd succumbed—to shock, to pain, to exhaustion, and more hopefully, to relief that his trusted team had found him in time.

"Hang in there, Don," she whispered in his ear. "We'll get you home."


	6. Four Days Later

Four days.

It had been four days since the raid on the auto shop.

Four days since they'd found Don, beaten and bloody, but alive and in one piece, thank God.

Four days since his broken nose had been packed, fractured jaw wired, ribs taped, fingers splinted, and his system pumped full of antibiotics and pain killers.

Four days since he'd been able to do much more than blink sleepily and smile lazily as he lay propped up in the bed. "Those must be some damn fine drugs," Granger had drawled good-naturedly while David displayed the first genuine smile Megan had seen in weeks.

He would lose a lot of weight before this was over, she knew. Living on IV drips and protein shakes for four days was already starting to show. But he was alive, he was healing, and when he was up to it, they were going to have one of the most memorable celebrations in recent Eppes memory, complete with all manner of exotically flavored Jell-O, mashed potatoes, and real ice cream—anything he felt up to digesting.

"Thank you." His voice was a rough, tired rasp, nasal, almost unrecognizable, but the dark eyes, surrounded though they were by various shades of bruising, were more alert than they had been in four days. She offered him the straw in his cup of water, and he sipped gingerly through cracked but healing lips. A slow blink and a soft sigh indicated when he'd had enough, and she set the cup aside.

His wrist, propped on pillows, twitched beneath her hand, and she slid her fingers under the splints that held his own strong digits in place.

"It's Charlie you should be thanking. He really came through."

"Already haff," Don replied. "Got m' own variation now." His eyes crinkled with mischief.

Megan choked a laugh. "I'll just bet you do."

" 'ank you," he said again.

They hadn't been wrong. Don had been right to make the exchange before the Yakuza could carry through on its threats. The team had been right to let Charlie work this very personal case. And Charlie's math and instincts had been right; he'd found his brother.

Being wrong was never an option.

Megan smiled and lightly brushed the top of her finger across his smooth shaven jaw.

"You're welcome."

_finis_

* * *

Author's Notes: No FBI agents were permanently damaged in the writing of this story. Though not directly connected to any of my previous works, this is definitely a variation on a theme. (In fact, I'm considering starting a series entitled "Variations on a Theme.") It is a theme that I will no doubt revisit from time to time until TPTB give me proper Don-peril/Charlie angst, with a side of Edgerton and a healthy dose of teamy goodness. Cheryl Heuton whetted my appetite for such a thing in one of the DVD commentaries, and I'm still waiting patiently. 


End file.
